


Carry My Body

by AbedNadir



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grief/Mourning, POV First Person, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 12:03:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15533826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbedNadir/pseuds/AbedNadir
Summary: John's account of the days immediately after the fall.





	Carry My Body

For days I didn’t know you were gone.

 

I saw it happen, I know. I ran over, I grabbed your wrist and checked your pulse. I saw the blood. But it wasn’t real, somehow. After everything we’d been through, all the impossible things you dragged out of the dark, how could I believe you were dead? We even knew someone who faked her own death, well enough to fool you.

So it wasn’t insane, alright? It wasn’t crazy to sit and wait for you. I sat in the living room with tea and a book, waiting for you to walk back through the door. I would try to stay awake as long as I could, falling prey to sleep for an hour or two before snapping awake in my chair.

And I waited and waited. Three days I was glued to my chair, reading the book but the door was never out of my sight. I knew you were going to come back. I knew it was some elaborate, ridiculous, fantastical scheme to one-up Moriarty in his game. You’re so clever, Sherlock. When you walked in, I would pretend to be angry for a few minutes, on principle, for putting me through that. Then I would be relieved and I would get to tell you how amazing you are, how extraordinary to live through jumping off a building.

The fourth day Mycroft came to see me.

I’d told everyone to sod off and turned off my mobile. It was already full of messages, from old friends and every leech in the media. I made the mistake of trying to watch the telly that first night, and it was everywhere. I turned it off after that. There was no one around Baker Street, I don’t know how Mycroft managed that. No one to hound me or try and catch me walking to Tesco. But I didn’t call anyone I knew either. I knew no one would understand that you weren’t really gone, you were playing hide-and-seek with a psychopath, acting out another one of his twisted fairytales. I didn’t want them bothering me while I was waiting for you, didn’t want there to be any chance that I wouldn’t be here when you came waltzing back in. By the fourth day, doubt had started to creep in. It made me angry. I felt like Moriarty was winning if I doubted you even for a second.

When I heard footsteps on the stair and I saw the handle turn, I could have cried for the relief, because I had started to doubt and I was so glad I didn’t have to anymore.

But Mycroft walked in and I’d never hated him more.

While you were playing with Moriarty and I confronted him at his club, I thought I knew what it meant to despise Mycroft Holmes. Thinking himself so clever, knowing what was best for you and me and the whole goddamn country, and he ended up giving Moriarty everything he needed to destroy you.

I truly hated him now. I thought he was going to be you, I thought it was you walking through the door, but it was the last person I ever wanted to see.

“Good morning, John. How are things?”

Bastard. I continued to read my book, ignore him like I did whenever the two of you had your silent battles.

“What have you been doing with yourself since we last spoke?”

Sarcasm, and he’s not even trying to hide it. Or perhaps I’ve lived with Sherlock too long and I can hear it through the polite inquiry.

“Mrs. Hudson says you haven’t left the flat in days.”

“Mrs. Hudson watches telly all day, she’s no idea what I have or haven’t done,” I snap. Damn. You had the patience of a six-year-old but you would never cave so quickly.

I’m expecting him to smirk at me now, with that bloody arrogance of his, but he doesn’t. He frowns. “You and I know that you haven’t, John. You’ve turned off your phone, you won’t talk to your friends, and you haven’t been in to work. I must confess my surprise. I thought your grief would be of the classic Victorian stoicism, going about your life with a brave face. I’m not entirely sure what to make of this behavior,” he peers at me from the door, he hasn’t moved more than a couple of steps into the room. Like he doesn’t want to approach too quickly or get too close and risk spooking me.

I glare back and open my mouth to say something. Nothing but a strangled grunt escapes. I decide to go back to ignoring him.

“Unless of course, you aren’t grieving.”

I say nothing.

“John, it’s over. He’s not coming back.”

I clench my jaw and say nothing.

“He’s never going to walk back into this flat and have a cup of tea with you. Sherlock’s gone.”

My book hits the opposite wall with a thud. I don’t care, the wall’s seen worse, the wall had it coming, I suddenly want to say and fight off a mad giggle. I stand and walk over to Mycroft. To his credit, he doesn’t look unduly alarmed, just the same mild frown he always wears.

“I want you to tell me he’s dead, look me in the eye and say it. Because you don’t even know, do you? You weren’t with him at the end, he wouldn’t trust you after the way you betrayed him. And you said it yourself, you said it when Irene Adler died, ‘it would take Sherlock Holmes himself to fool me.’ Sherlock Holmes can fool you. Can you really tell me this isn’t one of his schemes, faking his death to get ahead of Moriarty? I don’t think you can.”

Mycroft stares at me for a few minutes with the same neutral expression.

“John, I can tell you with absolute certainty that Sherlock Holmes did not pull the wool over my eyes this time. Do you think I would allow the smallest error with my own brother’s autopsy? With the care of his corpse?”

For some reason the word corpse hits me harder than anything. The word is ugly somehow, chilling. I can’t look at this man.

“Sherlock is dead, John. I can list all of the injuries his body sustained if you really care to hear them.” Mycroft pauses and I hear him shift on his feet. “He didn’t suffer. You’re a doctor. You know he wouldn’t have felt pain, he died instantly. John, look at me,” I can’t, I don’t want to, but Mycroft moves in front of me.

“Sherlock’s dead. He’s gone and you need to let him go. He wouldn’t want this for you, shutting yourself away from the world and ignoring reason.”

For the first time, I think I see compassion in Mycroft Holmes’ eyes and it’s so much worse than all his sighing and sarcasm and posturing.

“Stop. Stop, just stop lying, Mycroft. You… you know where he is, don’t you? You must, you must’ve helped him. Look, I won’t say anything, I swear it, I won’t tell anyone. Let me see him, tell me where he is and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll spy on him this time, I can tell you anything you want to know, just take me to see him.” I know I sound pathetic, and Sherlock will hate me for this, but I mean it, I would trade anything Mycroft wants to see Sherlock.

Mycroft shakes his head. That awful compassion stays in his eyes.

“Seriously Mycroft, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about him. But you have to let me see him, you have to let me…”

I can’t speak anymore, my throat is too tight. I can feel tears prickling in my eyes. I swallow, I keep opening my mouth to speak and closing it again when I realize I can’t.

“Please. Anything you want. Tell me he’s not dead.”

His eyebrows pull together. He looks… he looks like he pities me.

“I’m sorry, John.”

 

 

*          *          *          *          *           *           *          *          *          *          *

 

 

Mrs. Hudson comes up after he leaves, armed with her largest tea tray and my favorite biscuits. He must have sent her up as he left. _Not to worry, Mrs. Hudson, just a small mess to tidy up, if you don’t mind._

She clucks when she sees me, sets her tray down, and goes over to lay a comforting hand on mine. “Poor dear. Mycroft’s not really one for a kind word. But you think he’d try to make an effort for you, seeing how much you loved Sherlock. You might have got to be brothers-in-law someday, and he should’ve supported that, finally getting Sherlock to settle down.”

I don’t have anything to say to that. Sometimes it’s not worth the effort with Mrs. Hudson. She’s a soft touch for love and an ever softer touch for Sherlock. She’s the fussy mother he doesn’t have, trying to get her precious boy to settle down and start a family. By now, she really ought to know better; Sherlock’s not the type for a family.

Wasn’t. He’s not in the present. I need to make that change in tense. He wasn’t.

I close my eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry John. As if this isn’t hard enough, me prattling on about what could have been—I’m so sorry. Here, eat something please, I brought you some sandwiches too, you look half-starved.”

I try to return her smile. Mrs. Hudson deserves more effort from me.

As if she’s reading my thoughts, she continues. “You know I loved him too,” and her voice trembles a little. “He was so dear to me.” She dabs at her eyes with a small white handkerchief. “So anything you need, John Watson, you don’t hesitate to tell me.”

Much more effort. She did love Sherlock. I reach over for a sandwich. “Why don’t we watch something? Might be nice to have a bit of a distraction.”

She beams at me, her smile wobbly but there. “Of course. One of those terrible morning programmes?”

We always did enjoy morning telly.

 

 

*          *          *          *          *           *           *          *          *          *          *

 

 

We sit together and watch telly for about an hour. I eat a sandwich, then a few biscuits when I see her eyeing me. We sit together, mostly in silence, just watching. It’s nice. I enjoy spending time with her. And I have been lonely these past few days, waiting.

A sick feeling of shame rushes over me. I’ve been such a fool, waiting for a dead man. No one knows that of course, no one but Mycroft.

Death isn’t new to me. Family members over the years, soldiers falling in the desert. I’ve had friends die before; I even had to see it a few times. But this… this is different.

I don’t have anything to compare it to because he just isn’t like anyone else.

_“There’s no one like you,” I plead into my phone, staring at the dark figure in stark contrast with the sunny sky. He laughs in my ear, but he sounds so sad. I think he’s crying._

I swallow hard, shoving the memory away. Maybe someday it won’t hurt so much and I can remember it then.

Today is what I should focus on. Mrs. Hudson left a few moments ago, giving me another wobbly smile and patting my arm. I need to turn on my phone, see the mess waiting there. I can guess who’s called, almost everyone I know, and who’s called several times, Greg, Mike, maybe Harry.

And…

And Mycroft asked if I would be at the funeral. If I wanted to say anything. Give a eulogy. I didn’t really answer him before he left. I suppose I’ll need to call him back for the details. Or I can ask Mrs. Hudson, I’m sure she knows when it is.

I don’t know if I can give a eulogy. If I can stand up and look at strangers and talk about the strange man who woke me up and drew me into his world. If I could manage to put into words how profoundly he changed my life, how… how he was. There aren’t words for him. Sherlock always made fun of the superlatives I used to describe his cleverness, amazing, fascinating, extraordinary, and so on. But that was just me marveling at his brain.

I don’t have the words for who he was, all of him, not just the clever deductions.

It seems people expect it of me, to give the eulogy. With the blog and all. It’s not so far-fetched, I guess. Everyone knew me, knew I was always with him. Most people suspected we were lovers, the papers implied it often enough. Maybe people think it’ll be just like another blog entry, another chapter on my favorite subject. An epilogue to the adventures.

No one understands.

You weren’t my subject, you weren’t some interesting _thing_ to write stories about. You mean so much to me, maybe not in the way Mrs. Hudson and the papers think, but I care about you more than I ever told you.

I regret that now. I knew how much I meant to you in Baskerville, when you told me you had one friend. I knew what that meant.

I think…I think you wouldn’t like it. You probably hated funerals. I don’t know, you never attended any while I was with you. It hits me again, all the things I don’t know about you. All the blank spaces in my Sherlock files, the little things and the ordinary things I never asked about you. I don’t know anything about your family. Isn’t that strange? I know about Lestrade’s family and Stamford’s and I even met Molly’s brother when he visited her one day. And I know nothing of yours. Maybe Mycroft was enough of the Holmes family to head off any further curiosity. But you never talked about them. I think I guessed your parents were dead and you didn’t like talking about them. Will they come to your funeral? Will I meet a bunch of cousins and aunts and uncles you never mentioned?

I don’t think you would like it if I got up and talked about how wonderful you are, and not just about your clever brain. You liked the attention, you _loved_ when people admired how clever you are, but you wouldn’t like a lot of talk about sentiment. It didn’t really make sense to you.

It’ll be a miracle if Mycroft can keep the papers away anyway. And you hated that more than anything, media vultures. You would loathe the rubbernecking at your funeral.

I check my phone. I was spot on about Greg and Mike and everyone else. Harry called, once, didn’t leave a message. I don’t know if I’ll call back. Mike left three voicemails, I know he’s worried about me. Greg left even more. He’s worried too, but he feels guilty more than anything else.

He should. It was his fault.

I feel terrible as soon as I think that. It’s Moriarty’s fault, I know that. But I can’t ignore the part of me that hates the rest of them, for not believing in him like I did. Sherlock certainly wouldn’t have. He expected it, to an extent, how all of them would turn on him. He wasn’t even surprised.

He thought it was only a matter of time before I did too.

 

 

*          *          *          *          *           *           *          *          *          *          *

 

 

 


End file.
